


Rouge

by DrPearlGatsby



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fancy Gala, Gingerflower, Gingerrose - Freeform, Hux is smooth, Rose is a little nervous about going undercover again, Rosehux, Unresolved Sexual Tension, red lipstick, spy games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:48:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28574784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrPearlGatsby/pseuds/DrPearlGatsby
Summary: “Do I look believable?” Rose asks suddenly, her voice loud and uneasy. “I feel like I look like a child playing dress-up. Do I look…for real?”Hux stands at some sort of attention, his hands clasped behind his back, but he glances down at her again, his eyes flicking over her form. “This… attire… suits you.” He looks back to the wall of the elevator. “Yes, you look ‘for real.’ As long as you don’t open your mouth.”
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Rose Tico
Comments: 23
Kudos: 51





	Rouge

**Author's Note:**

> In my anticipation for Gingerrose Secret Spy, I wrote this pre-gala scene that didn't end up connecting to my exchange fic, so I zhuzhed it up a little and am flinging it out into the internet. Please accept my brief apologies that I may be taking some liberties with canon when it comes to what's Haysian in the service of my theme of red.
> 
> ...
> 
> Exciting development! The podcast [Once Upon a Fanfic](https://twitter.com/fanfic_once) has featured this story in their third episode. [Twisted_Mirror](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mirror/pseuds/Twisted_Mirror) has an AMAZING reading voice and I feel so honored to hear my fic read aloud like this. You can listen on [anchor.fm](https://anchor.fm/twistedmirror/episodes/Episode-3-Rouge-Gingerrose-Fanfic-Audio-fic-epifb1) or [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/episode/6XgsftYHMV1a2kvOnOSZ6H?si=G8-KKmP7TrGjO-dFqR-jjQ), and be sure to give their podcast a follow! :)

The dress is a red that shifts in the light, looking red-gold from some angles and red-black from others. The bodice drapes in the front, tastefully concealing her cleavage, but the back—

Rose winces as she tries to reach around her body for the fasteners. She turns in the fresher mirror, watching her arm attempt the reach again before the lightning jolt of pain shoots up her arm.

Still barefoot, she moves to the door, knocking even though she’s on the inside. “I need some help with the dress,” she calls. She hears a noise of assent from the room—permission to enter—and exits the fresher.

Hux has his back to her, fastening some part of his dress coat.

Rose tries not to look at him for too long, planting herself in the middle distance and then turning her back to him. “I wrenched my arm yesterday and I can’t do the clasps.”

“Hm,” the General says, moving too quietly across the carpet—Rose only knows he’s behind her when she feels the tug of the first gold chain being straightened and separated from the others.

“Just straight across, I think,” Rose advises, assuming the General is just as confounded by the dress as she is. It’s on loan from a Resistance contact—one of the latest styles in Canto Bight, they’re told. There are five gold chains that clasp and then hang down her back, and Hux’s fingers brush accidentally against her bare skin as he works. He’ll be touching her tonight—something she’d thought of with some chagrin as she’d tried on the dress with its plunging open back the first time back at base. The consolation to that thought was his gloves—a First Order standard she expects. He isn’t wearing the gloves yet, and Rose feels strangely compelled to hold her breath as his touch ghosts over her skin.

Now Hux’s fingers work to fasten the last chain, his hand resting against the exposed skin of her lower back. There’s a slight tug to the fabric, as if the clasp is being stubborn, and Rose expects any moment that he’ll let go—but his hand remains several moments longer after she feels him finish moving. When he moves his hand away—though she _knows_ she imagines it—it feels less like a withdrawal and more like a caress.

“Thank you,” Rose says quickly, turning around to face him in spite of the warmth she feels rushing to her cheeks. The makeup will cover for her.

Hux raises a single finger in a gesture that tells her to pause, frowning down at her face.

“What,” Rose says crossly, but her voice comes out much softer than she means.

“Your cosmetics.”

“What?” Rose frowns, and this time her voice gets her mood right. The General towers over her, his expression mostly blank but for the single eyebrow he’s raised just slightly at her insolence. Rose feels the judgement in his stare and gestures at her face. “This is tasteful!”

“It’s not Arkanisian.”

“Because it’s traditional on Hays.” The cosmetics were a gift from General Organa—a small, necessary luxury. Rose had carefully applied the dark shaping stick that seemed to alter her facial structure, the powders that muted and evened the contour lines to match her skin tone, the tiny smear of bright red Haysian lipstick.

Hux continues to regard her with unnerving intensity, standing far too close than Rose feels comfortable with. The problem is she can _smell_ him—the sweet, forest-y tones of his cologne and the powdery smell of his soap. It’s heady, delicious, exactly the kind of smell she’d expect from someone who looks so beautiful and severe. _Get a grip, dummy_ , she thinks with no small bit of panic as she’s forced to stare at what apparently counts as a First Order dress uniform—his coat has tails and epaulets, like something in an old historical holo. It’s impractical, the bars of decoration and tassels at his shoulders, and it’s everything Rose can to do pretend that it doesn’t make him look that much more sculpted and powerful, that the sight of him in it doesn’t make her weak in the knees.

“I’m supposed to be a hired girl,” Rose protests.

“You need to blend with me.”

“I could be Haysian. Isn’t that more than plausible?”

“You’d only be calling attention to yourself.” Hux studies her face a moment longer. “Hired or no, they’d expect me to direct you in the ways of local fashion. A bit of a fuller brow, and a more neutral lip.”

Rose unconsciously covers her mouth with one hand, protecting the costly, precious products she’d been given for the evening. “I—that’s all the makeup I have. I’ve used up everything but the shaping stick.” The powder and rouge had been sealed at opposite ends of a tiny compact, just enough to get by for one night.

“Hm,” Hux hums, producing from his pocket a handkerchief. Before Rose can react, he nudges her wrist out of the way and leans closer to blot at her lips with the kerchief, staining the white surface with the precious rouge. A shout of protest— _you’re wasting it!_ —flickers momentarily through her mind and then disappears as the General applies gentle pressure to her lips, blotting and rubbing.

Rose is reminded of the last time his hand was anywhere near her mouth, the bitter taste of his leather glove that lingered after he’d stormed away, enraged. Unconsciously, she opens her mouth, just slightly, and Hux pauses, resting his cloth-covered finger on her lower lip. Rose freezes, barely breathing, watching his own mouth fall just slightly open as his gaze zeroes in to where his finger rests. Rose studies the way his ginger hair catches the artificial light, the natural cut of his cheekbones, the perfect pout of his lips—and again, how the bells and whistles of the dress uniform make him seem broader, more angular, more intimidating. She doesn’t even realize she’s moved her face a fraction closer to his until she notices the pressure of his finger on her lip has increased.

He withdraws for a moment, if only to stash the cloth in his other hand. Rose scarcely breathes as his bare finger returns to rub gently over her lips, evening the tone now that some of the color has been blotted away. The finger travels from one end of her lower lip to the other, slipping up carefully to trace her top lip after. All the while Hux’s attention is fixed on her lips and Rose’s is fixed on his expression—the way his face has softened just slightly, his mouth no longer set in a frown. Their faces are close, _too_ close, and Rose is practically hypnotized. When Hux pulls his hand away and drags his eyes back up meet hers, Rose doesn’t so much as take a step back or even lean away from him, waiting for whatever her stuttering heart seems to expect.

“There,” Hux says, his voice just above a whisper.

Rose can’t help it—her eyes flicker down to his full lips. His face is still _so close_ to her. When she catches herself, she looks up to see that Hux’s eyes have widened, that nebulous _something_ lurking enticingly behind them.

“That will have to suffice,” Hux says, a little more loudly than necessary, as he moves past her toward the fresher. In the fresher Rose hears him run the water— _water! How wasteful!_ —presumably to clean the cosmetic from his hand and the cloth, but she remains rooted to her spot just a moment longer.

_He almost—_ we _almost—_

Even though Hux works for their side now, the near-slip-up feels traitorous to Rose. She shakes her head, clearing whatever stupid, frivolous thoughts are beginning to form in it. She’s been trusted as a true spy, given another chance to go undercover. She can’t afford to kriff this up.

After she fastens her shoes on it’s nearly time for the festivities to begin, and Hux exits the fresher as if on cue. “Tico,” he calls to her, waiting expectantly.

Rose keeps her head high as she steps up beside him, wanting to give the impression of someone thoroughly unbothered by _whatever_ just happened. Hux places his hand—now gloved—at the small of her back, reaching with the other hand to open the door. But even as Rose exits the room ahead of him, as they move down the hallway, he doesn’t remove the hand, guiding her like—like some sort of gentleman. Like some sort of prince.

At the end of the hall, they step into an empty elevator, and Hux finally removes his hand from her. Almost immediately Rose misses his touch, though she’s loath to admit it to herself. They stand quietly side-by-side and Rose takes a series of long, deep breaths, enumerating her objectives in her head once again. She feels flushed and almost feverish, wondering when she last had a drink of water. Is she dehydrated already? Wouldn’t _that_ be just great, passing out in front of a judgy, hostile crowd.

She clutches her hands together, stopping just short of wringing them as she swallows against her suddenly-dry throat. She was much less nervous on the _Supremacy_ , and back then she’d been dodging the watchful eyes of the General—not under his protection. But she’d been playing nothing more than a drone then—another First Order cog in the wheel, meant to slip under the radar, to pass unnoticed in the same uniform as everyone else. Now she’ll have all eyes on her, and what if—what if General Organa’s coaching isn’t enough? What if the makeup isn’t her only misstep? A slip-up on her part won’t just cost her—it’ll cost the entire Resistance. Compromise Hux, and they can kiss all of his valuable intel goodbye. _Get a grip_ , she tells herself again, but a different voice wins out—one that says no one will ever buy it. _This was a stupid idea, this was a stupid idea, this was a_ very stupid _idea_.

“Do I look believable?” she asks suddenly, her voice loud and uneasy. “I feel like I look like a child playing dress-up. Do I look… _for_ _real_?”

Hux stands at some sort of attention, his hands clasped behind his back, but he glances down at her again, his eyes flicking over her form. “This… attire… suits you.” He looks back to the wall of the elevator. “Yes, you look ‘ _for real_.’ As long as you don’t open your mouth.”

Rose scoffs at his pronouncement, delicately stamping her foot. At her indignation, a corner of Hux’s mouth turns up—the closest to smiling she’s ever seen him come.

At least the dress covers her shoes and permits a flat slipper. She doesn’t know how she’d get through an entire evening in the most casual of circumstances wearing _heels_ , much less a top-secret spy mission. But the thrill she’d felt at being tapped for this mission is long gone; she plucks at the fabric of the dress between two fingers. It rustles under her touch—not the best sort of thing for sneaking around. _The point is_ not _to sneak around but rather to look like you belong_ , she’d been told.

She _doesn’t_ belong, though, and somewhere between the dryness in her throat and Hux’s finger on her lip, her good sense has short-circuited. “They should’ve made me—I should be playing the hired help or something,” she babbles. “Or have sent Kaydel to do the fancy, poised thing. I’m bad at talking to people. I don’t know how to be well-bred. This is _ridiculous_. Why would I—why am I wearing _this_?”

Hux reaches out and presses his palm against a panel, and the elevator comes to a stop.

Rose jolts at the movement, looking wide-eyed at her companion. It’s not that she expects him to betray her, to betray them—his intel has been good; his communications have been mostly professional; his plans have been instrumental to all their advances. But now that she’s given herself over to her nerves, she expects she’s angered him; and she braces herself for a scolding. Her heart is pounding as Hux turns back to her, and she berates herself for being so weak.

Hux steps closer to her and she flinches. Perhaps because of this he steps even closer, fully in her space, resting his gloved hands on her shoulders. Rose feels the warmth of his hands where her shoulders are bare.

“Tico,” his voice is serious, but he doesn’t seem to be scolding her. “You’re exactly who we need for this. Trust your general. Trust yourself.” He hesitates, only slightly, his green eyes boring into hers, and then his voice is a little softer with his last pronouncement: “Trust _me_.”

“Hux,” Rose says softly—but she’s unable to follow his name with a thought. Standing this close, Rose can smell his cologne again, and he rubs absently at her collarbone with one thumb. Her mind should be returning to her mission, but instead she can only think of his gloved hands on her skin and the little sparks of humanity she’s seen in him over months of secure messages. _Trust me_.

Hux withdraws then, moving toward the panel on the elevator wall. His back is to her when he asks, “Shall we?”

“Yes,” Rose calls out clearly, putting strength into her voice that she does not feel. He’s right—she wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t the right person for the job. General Organa is too smart for that.

The elevator lurches to life, and Hux returns to his place at her side. He rests his hand once again at the small of her back, as if to steady her, and Rose glances up into his face with gratitude. Hux gives her another almost-smile and Rose thinks she sees a promise in his eyes.

The elevator begins to settle on the ground floor. _He’s going to kiss me tonight_ , Rose thinks just before the doors open. _And I’m going to let him._


End file.
